


Dust Dancers: A Weird Western

by GradyNumbers



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, But it's there, Cowboys & Witches, Eventual Romance, Like I'm sorry it's so slow, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn, Western, weird western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GradyNumbers/pseuds/GradyNumbers
Summary: In the year 1860, magic and witchcraft is still being called upon as a condemning means to rid the world of particular nuisances. However, is not only witchcraft completely real hiding underneath vengeful paranoia, other supernatural beings and users carry on within the wide expanses of the American Frontier alongside gunslingers and devilish preachers.Wes "Wrench" is looking for honest work with the up and coming Transcontinental Railroad in order to leave the troubled life of a gunhand behind. That is, until he comes across the hanging of apparent witch Grady "Numbers" in desperate need of a believer, or, better yet, a nonbeliever.





	1. S01E01

**Author's Note:**

> It's taken several years to finally crack this one out, but it has finally begun~ And I'd like to thank my partner in crime as well as anyone who has come to me with encouraging words and excitement recently. You all mean so much to me and your support has been beyond helpful, so from the bottom of my heart honestly thank you. As always comments, notes, and words of any kind are encouraged. Let me know how it's going and now go enjoy some cowboys and witches!

**1860, somewhere inside the territory of Nebraska**

Nothing seemed to compliment the expanding landscape of Nebraska as much as the dry sun heaving heavily overhead. During the dewy morning, Wrench had trekked far across rolling plains of grass and managed to find the dying crags of earth where prosperous plants struggled to breathe just as the fire in the stretching sky began to burn the top of his head. Taking shelter underneath the wide brim of his hat, he spurred his horse quickly upon the notice of a nearby settlement. With luck he could manage to find a cold drink for relief and a kind bystander to point him towards the nearest construction site for the up and coming railroad project.

The peaceful promise of balanced work was all that Wrench aspired for at the time. Hard, honest labor of simple lifting, shoveling, and picking ensured more wellbeing than blood soaked in his boots and a hand shaking from quick to draw recoils. He sought a sort of harmony then, some kind of tranquility that could only be found in blistered hands, aching muscles, and the decent chore load of a day’s hard work. He was not bred and born to the concept, and in fact it came to be completely foreign to him, however, he was more than willing to learn. Perhaps resolution was what he needed to clear rattling thoughts and shaken nerves. Perhaps that resolution resided just over the horizon, beyond the confides of the creaking, callous town he wandered into that blistering afternoon. Or perhaps this was the end to his very fleeting life of peace. As he pushed his steed, Outlaw, into a slow perusing pace he managed to move the thought aside for another dry morning in another torrid town. That is, until he saw the bubbling congregation in the center of the settlement.

The mob churned restlessly, a crowd spurred onward into agitation by a simple voice carrying in its front. Each movement of the lips brought the toiling mass to foaming rabidly, shouting, spiting, and biting for justice of the vengeful variety, a kind that had been most satisfying for Wrench and those who had hired him in the past, however, this was much more different in personality. The people at his feet were toxic, he could practically smell it wafting over their surface as they convulsed madly in front of him. Not only this, but they were called to action by the crowd pleaser at the head of the swelling mania, a lone vocalization in complete control of the sanity of the people. The man could have been announcing their journey to dive head first into a never-ending canyon and they would have followed with great earnestness. It appeared to be mob mentality at its finest example, and nothing good ever came from a maddened mob stirred vigorously by its manipulative orator. Wrench stationed curiously at the very back, a still stone among the outraged waves of the crowd, and leaned forward attentively in attempt to spy every word that tumbled from the apparent preacher’s frothing lips. More or less, he caught the man’s purpose.

“We are here to condemn! The people of god come before his alter in order to banish what evil we can in this world!” He took an exasperated breath before letting his gaze mill about his audience with great care and attention. “We have been cursed this day. A burden has plagued our people with devilish action. No kindness comes with such activity such as his! His efforts, now proven mind you, are that of- of-“ the man stuttered frantically as he nipped at the crowd by his secure feet upon the gallows. His now widened eyes connected with Wrench’s as he wavered at the edge of the congregation. The final curse was thrown his way, spat from the front and striking Wrench with such annoying force he almost tipped backwards then and there to find what he had originally come for. “Black magic!”

Though, while he slumped in his saddle with the ridiculous accusation, the crowd roared around him like a pack of starving coyotes blessed with their long awaited juicy morsels. Wrench’s doubt was seen by the preacher and it only made him smile a bit devilishly himself, though he scrutinized such affiliation. His smirk was sickeningly bright even as it broke wider to spill forth more blackened speeches just barely caught by the cowboy towards the rear.

“The trial has ceased after many exhausting days of tribulation. Finally, the wicked has come forward to us as such, and now he comes forward in front of you all to pay for what hideous crimes he has committed now and forever!”

Wrench watched sharply as what could only be described as the battered shape of a man was brought towards the steps leading up to the gallows, face shrouded by a hood ungraciously drooped over his head. The rags he was draped in depicted him as nothing but dirty, dim, and possibly even desperate if the sallow skin peeking out was any hint to go by. As he was roughly thrown up each steep step staggering weakly, the preacher turned toward him, the accused, the dreaded, the wicked. He stood much taller in his presence, an action that made Wrench absolutely sick and aggrieved himself.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my, oh, so godly brethren, I give you Grady “Numbers” Tripoli.” The hood was cast aside so the bleary face hidden underneath could face the people that he had wronged in his pursuit of “magic,” a magic that could not obviously exist in the minds of the waking world, Wrench noted justly. Whatever this man was accused of was not magic in origin and was nothing but that: an accusation made by those who most apparently wanted him banished from their lives for good. What better way to do so then by clutching the cross around your neck and screaming “Blasphemy”? Wrench couldn’t help but glare into the preacher’s glittering eyes with more distain then was perhaps due.

“As you know he is not,” the brilliant, power hungry eyes flicked over the frail prisoner rather quickly, as to not catch whatever evil he possessed within his being, “ _innocent_.” The preacher began to swim with such emotion it was as if he were performing nothing but a play to entertain the dangerously deprived public before him. His laughs flitted in and out with the air of a blameless bird until he shuddered with unimaginable grief for his people and what this man has done to them. “Oh, no, no he has done so much more than I can say to you, the righteous people of god of which he does not belong. He has held hands with the Devil himself and brought inconceivable darkness into our world. It is all I can do, no it is all _we_ can do, for Him, our blessed Father Almighty above, to rid this blot of blackness in His honor and save our souls before they can be _tainted_.”

The shocked and swaying man had been brought to center stage, pushed as he groaned with the mob, prodded until he was snapping with them, the noose being brought down over his head like a collar to wrangle a rabid mutt. He hung against it in order to gain any sort of equilibrium as the preacher took position next to him, tilting his weak chin up with the crook of his knuckle so that charcoal eyes met serene, but bubbling waters of the preacher’s own. He had the most feigned air of sincerity emanating from him as he tutted the lowlife evil quite literally at the end of his rope before him. He pleaded forgiveness then, righteousness for the wrong doer, placing himself atop a pedestal of unholy right among the condemning crowd. His grace and mercy did nothing for the accused, however, besides set the coals of his eyes to burning, vengeful life. This Grady “Numbers”, rope fastened around his feeble neck with nothing but foul curses and ravenous denunciations flying into his ears from the real evil dancing inside the scene, did not desire forgiveness from these “godly” folk. He wanted his own justice, one of which he deserved, and with that Wrench’s throat tighten as if the rope around the prisoner’s own neck was constricting close to his and wringing wildly. The preacher was delivering no such fairness to this apparent criminal, devil even, as he shook his head weakly to him.

“Any last words?” Wrench’s hands clenched at the reigns until his knuckles bled as white as the searing sun in the heavens. The pompousness, to such a frail, already abused man, as if his very existence was enough to deserve such pain, that is what drove Wrench mad, not this gibberish magic that had been committed by the man at the noose. The almighty attitude of a man pledged under the highest of the almighty was frankly bullshit and the gunslinger’s mind was already racing to the only action he had come to know even as this Mr. “Numbers” fellow conjured his last words. He twisted them with great effort inside his mouth, tasting and polishing them with his tongue before simply, but quite fiercely, spitting at the persecutor with every ounce he could manage to collect. The preacher stiffened, crooking his neck and muttering as he briskly stepped away to drag a bone white handkerchief across his now moisten façade. His voice became low then, his audience leaning into every word with such interest it was as if their own life depended on it, not that of the prisoner dangling in front of them. 

“He will get what he deserves. You will get what you deserve!” The preacher turned furiously back to the rope. “You, foul witch, will face the darkness from which you invoke and feel _fear_!” The accused’s eyes fluttered faintly then, as if rolling even when knocking on Death’s rather bothersome door. Infuriation seemed to be one of his talents alongside causing scathing paranoia among the masses and the rope jerked harshly, burning at his throat. 

The preacher faced his congregation, peaceful once more, and bowed his head. “Let us pray.” Wrench watched as the mob followed in their leader’s footsteps immediately, piously dipping to the missionary even as he glanced up and took in their obedience, a grin stretching his lips thin as the word of the Lord spilled from them and bathed those ravished at his feet. Wrench caught the false prophet’s smile, just as he caught the prisoner’s own lips moving, molding into a language that he could not come to understand. He was fighting to draw something to his weak form, anything it seemed, such as a drowning man begs for the water to come to him even as he sinks further into the unforgiving depths. Wrench felt his jaw lock together and his own body go rigid, as the end of the prayer rapidly approached, as the noose wound tighter around the convict’s throat. His fingers came to dance by his holster before he could even manage a second thought as to why they were lingering there. 

“Forgive us our debts,” the crowd monotonously sang.

 _This is wrong_ , Wrench thought.

“…as we also have forgiven our debtors,”

 _Nothing good ever came from a mob_ ,

“And lead us not into temptation,”

 _Magic doesn’t even exist_ ,

The noose pulled towards the sky.

The prisoner gasped.

“…but deliver us from evil.” 

The now pleading eyes of the witch connected with Wrench’s own. And…

_Snap. CRACK. CRACK CRACK!_

Before a singular amen could be uttered in conclusion, even before the rope could snap under the weight of the convict falling through the trap door, gunshots rang so abruptly most of the mass had to cover their ears in confused awe. All but the cowboy, the preacher, and the witch remained unfazed. Justly, those three took action. The witch clamored to his trembling knees, observing the limp rope now dangling around his neck. The preacher was sent bolting upright in wild search of the source of such intervention. The cowboy, now rearing on his steed in just depiction at the foot of the gallows, reached eagerly for the witch’s quaking hand. Following duly to the cowboy’s demands, the witch crawled forward with what little energy remained within his frail frame, took hold of the kind grasp strongly and let himself be slung onto Outlaw’s back. 

The preacher’s voice whistled shrilly like a boiling kettle above the bubbling mob, calling his people to action, to seize the rebels as they began to flee, but no horse had run as fast or as long as Law, and Wrench vanished with his new ally into the shivering distance just as the congregation found the means to follow in their quickly diminishing wake. The preacher called, yelled, yowled until the mob was swelling more, a weapon at his disposal, chasing after their victims like a pack of hunting hounds caught on a scent, hungrily striving to please their master. As they bolted into the distance after their prey, the dust settled around the preacher, now empty of a company to impress. Several long moments passed under the sweltering sun, until he brought the handkerchief back across his forehead and cursed in a rather mousy squeak “Aw, jeez.”

While the gang of religious listeners and persecutors struggled to barrel after their new enemies, Wrench struggled to keep his rescued associate on top of the racing horse as they galloped hastily away in escape. The dark and very much worn and pale witch, of whom Wrench could not bring himself to call a witch or magician or enchanter or conjurer though he had claimed the titles, struggled against every clap of Outlaw’s hooves. Step after advancing step he became more restless, Wrench late to notice his dry, mumbling lips floundering with great effort to express a light warning or waning instruction to which Wrench promptly ignored in favor of safety and security. That is until he felt a tug on his throat from a shuddering yet stern hand clasping and balling at the bandana around his neck. He risked a glance downward to see the victim’s eyes much closer now, wide, endless, and inescapable as he looked in. Though his body was screaming songs of vulnerability, his eyes spoke of no such music, but rather became immovable in their depths of stubbornness. They demanded Wrench harken his notice, even as he fought to keep his head steady upon his shoulders, so the cowboy did as such without a second left to doubt him. The chapped lips took motion once more with the savior’s full attention at hand. 

“Go back.”

The doubt returned faster than a hot knife through butter. Wrench made no reply, merely went back to work in losing the hounds sniffing away at their tail. The witch lolled, wavering to and fro, but not of exhaustion. His own freshly ignited irritation rocked his body in complete discontent, but it was not in Wrench’s better nature to honor his displeasure with any sort of regard. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the horizon, a destination never-ending and sure to offer them the vital protection they desired. However, the witch was far more persistent than Wrench had come prepared for.

Feverish hands clawed at his own, twisting into his palm in search of control. Before Wrench could squeeze tighter or swat the pesky fingers away like troublesome flies, the reins had been taken from his firm grasp and fell into a more tenacious one. The witch struggled into straightness and tugged mercilessly at the straps in hand, yanking back further and further until it seemed himself and the reins were ready to split in two. Outlaw, in understood annoyance, reared up madly, beckoning Wrench for calm. With one hand patting at his steed’s neck and the other snatching the means of control back into his possession, he pulled his ally firmly into view, every moment’s passing making him the more regretful. 

Furious gaze met the more furious steadily and the witch barked again, “Back!”

Wrench kept frozen, locked in battle with glaring and examination. He took the witch in wholly then, every sickly patch of skin, drooping tangle of hair, and wild eyed outlook. Though he remained as irksome as ever, Wrench could not bite back at his dependable determination and let him take hold of the reins. Tucking the witch’s body between his arms and keeping his hands close by to guide the weaker’s, they set off once more, crumbling their progress swifter than a hairpin trigger.

Leaning heavily against Wrench’s stabilizing presence, the passenger become the chauffeur, and lead them back around their initial starting point. Far along the outer reaches of the cold-blooded settlement, the two insurgents dashed just away from searching eyes and sped passed without a second glance back. Wrench took to studying the witch as he drove them further into the crumbling countryside, thankful that Law was bred to handle such pressure and force since his days as a colt. He noted the keen shifting of this Numbers’ eyes, as they darted to the sky, cradling the sun’s position carefully in their intensity and weighing it to the peaks of approaching cliff sides. He seemed to harmonize with the expanse of nature surrounding him, every loose stone and drifting particle of dust became a direction in his contemplation, and he looked passed the blue blanketed atmosphere as if he could see the stars sleeping behind it. He was in full authority of their destination and seemed he would not rest until they came upon it.

Just as the sun began to dip downwards, calling for the curtains to close and conclude, Wrench spotted an abandoned empire of a ranch peeking in the distance and felt as the witch began to ease the efforts of Outlaw’s laboring legs. Speedily trotting to their new venue seemed not quick enough for Numbers as he swayed forward and began tipping in attempt to dismount impatiently. He managed to slip away from Wrench’s guardrails and tumbled rather gracelessly into the stale soil below, staggering onto stiffened feet and sailing to his sightless goal. Wrench tugged Outlaw to slow further, briskly curving around in their tracks to work back to the witch as he pawed frantically at the dirt under his knees, digging in such mad desperation it seemed he were searching for his next breath of air. Wrench, hopping down from his steed with much more elegance than his scrambling counterpart, casually moved to Numbers’ side, calmly and moderately enough as to not possibly frighten the apprehensive witch away as he took hold of his awaited wealth. Well, if what he now clutched closely to his chest could be described as wealth, though it was so tightly taken it was as if he craved to replace his own beating heart with the battered object now in hand. Upon more intimate inspection Wrench noticed it was nothing but a beaten old book, pages cramped within binding bursting at the seams. The witch’s breathing began to abate as Wrench took a knee by his side peering in curiously to the immensely private and pure moment. He jumped only when the manic, black eyes struck against his violently, nearly taking his own breath as it was regained in the witch across from him. He froze under them and not even the scorching sun above could rid him of the chill that clung to his bones and burrowed within. Wrench managed a shallow swallow, but nothing more, only freed as the witch’s eyes began to roll. They flashed the yellowing white of full moons, shocking in contrast to the black pools that had him pinned just moments ago, and as they shifted phases his body began to fall with them. Wrench hurried closer to him as his body dropped, catching it in cradling arms with more care than he knew himself capable of carrying. Weightless now and nestled in his lap, Wrench looked from the unyielding yet now composed witch to the sluggishly setting sun and sighed to the lone star. Lugging the man delicately onto his shoulder, he took to mounting Outlaw once more and trekked onward towards the dropping sun ahead, quietly in quest to find lesser known shelter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A nervous knock rapped at an ebony oak door and rattled hollowly through to the study residing on the opposite side. The preacher rocked back on jittery heels in anticipation as the dull echo faded into the darker wood interior surrounding him. His hands tangled restlessly in his pockets, moving to heaving at his heavily constricting collar in attempt to wheeze an anxious huff of stuttering air. After ages of nothing but silence in the din and dusty air, a low voice called forth from beyond the barrier as empty and void as the suspicious space of current residency. 

“Come in,” it murmured, almost pleasant to the apprehensive preacher. He took what confidence and courage he could collect in a moment’s notice and entered the dim and dreadful study. 

Book shelves lined the walls as if to fortify from prying and pesky intrusion. The greying floorboards creaked with even the slender weight of the preacher as he took his sober strides inside, gently nudging the door shut behind him. Illustrations of brutal but religious scenery peppered the walls in what open area remained above peeling wallpaper and adjacent to sun dried diagrams. A window was stationed just behind the study’s lone desk, seeping in dull sunlight in order to shadow the lazily busied occupant at the desk.

“Mmm, Pastor Nygaard,” a book of organ like and inhuman abominations closed coolly at his approach. Pastor Nygaard eyed the specimen wearily, even as its cover came to conceal the creatures hiding within. Before his inspection could be noticed and picked upon, he looked back to his higher-up with edged nerves.

“Reverend Malvo.”

“What brings you back so soon?”

“Well, uh-“

“The execution went well?”

“You see-“

“You did your job?”

“No.”

The chilled voice halted into a sharp splinter. “What?”

“Not exactly, Reverend.”

“What happened, Lester?”

Lester crumbled and shivered at being appointed so grimly. “He, well, he escaped. Sir.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, there was this fella, real sturdy fella-“

“How?”

“A cowboy. I-I don’t know, Reverend. To my knowledge he had no affiliations-“

“To your knowledge.”

“Yes… he was abandoned and, as you know, uh, we kept a good eye on him in his trials and there is no way he could have gotten word out to a gunhand.”

“Well, obviously he did.” The voice seemed to sing, but nothing soothed, not even his stinging smile that seeped out from the shadows. 

“Yeah… we can’t find him. Them.”

“It doesn’t matter now what happened.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. What’s important now is we get them back to confinement.”

“Yes.”

“Like we were entrusted to do, Lester.”

“Yes, right away, Reverend, just, well, how do you suppose we do that? Lorne, the congregation today was, well, they hadn’t got the sense that God gave a goose. We don’t have the proper man power for this.”

“Hmm.” Lester watched as the shadow, Malvo, tilted in composure. He puzzled and fumed in the darkness, but calmly as to trick Lester into a false state of security, though his breath still managed to ball stubbornly in his throat. He took to watching the dust drift leisurely through the sunbeams, more frigid in touch than the warmth the dreary yellow light regularly pledged by. His eyes drifted back to the Reverend as he leaned closer, hands propped flatly against the desk. “We have our hands full, Lester.”

“I know, Sir.”

“And, while this is important, we can’t take it into our hands any longer. You made sure of that.”

“My, mmm, my apologies, Reverend.”

“We hire someone else then.”

“Um, who would that be? Do you think?”

“Cursed beasts bred to hunt down their cursed brethren.”

“…Excuse me, Sir?”

“The Gerhardt family would be a prime example.”

“They’re, but they’re-“

“Or, perhaps, Kansas City?”

“You’d trust the lot of them?!” Lester’s voice cracked absurdly at the mere thought of involving either of the two mentioned parties.

“I don’t see why not, Brother Nygaard.” The friendly term of brother settled Lester from his squeaking anxiety long enough for Lorne to make his proposition clear. “Get the Gerhardt’s. And Kansas City. We can’t be too careful now, can we?”

“I suppose not.” Lester seemed rather breathless. “But, what if they come together? They have that rivalry, you know.”

“Even better. Less monsters for us to worry about, and more bodies for us to count.”

Lester peered back, reeling his shock inwards as to not oppose Lorne in his suggestion. Doing so could only lead to trouble, and frankly he was swimming neck deep in troubled waters as they spoke then. As Reverend Malvo had said they could not take it into their hands any longer. Much more important matters were at stake. Lester heaved in a long sigh and held onto it until his posture was straight as could be, nodding promptly to Lorne in agreement to his offered plan. Malvo nodded back much slower, though he was clearly pleased, and Lester began to take his leave.

 _Hiring monsters_ , he mused as he exited the dismal study, _What on God’s great Earth could possibly go wrong?_


	2. S01E02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a period of rest, relaxation, and recuperation, the cowboy and the witch prepare to part their own separate ways. Though when settling into their newly entered town, Wrench and Numbers are faced with more trouble then they had originally expected: Bounties on their heads and real monsters in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter hashed out in one sitting, a lesson to myself as to why I shouldn't do that. Hope it's enjoyable, and please give feedback if you're willing. I always appreciate it. Thank you for reading~

Nothing stirred during the following dry, deserted day but the woozy half-hidden moon, the diligent sun bringing scheduled shining daylight in its own waking, and the cowboy solitarily stationed underneath the two as they promptly paced their paths. Minimal occupations busied him in the lengthening hours, only lazily cooking and collecting water from a nearby stream stretched his sluggish feet, his mind simply soaked within imaginary interactions looping through long lasting daydreams. He watched as the flames from the campfire created sheens and shadows amongst the dusky ground, and when day finally came to break he engrossed himself in the clouds shifting smoothly across the forever sky above his mingling mind. It was the least he could do between periods of collected dwindling supplies he was not capable of claiming in the town of yesterday and checking on the wellbeing of his recently acquired accomplice. Though his breath came faltering at times, it was fleeting in its passing and only brought along by dreams of his own haunted mind as he swam between rousing and slumbering. That is what Wrench thought, anyway, as he was an active sleeper himself in both waking and dozing, or so he had been told in brief interactions that were few and far between. Not to mention this particular person that was snagging a prolonged and possibly worrying snooze underneath his very own tent had seemed to go through hell and high water in his previous company. It was the least Wrench could do to let him stay asleep and untangle tensions in his dreaming duration all the while. He would return to the land of the living when he was well and ready, which did not come to pass until later along the very next evening.

Wrench caught the flickering of weighted and troubled eyelids just before the witch came to adjust upwards as if rising gloomily from his very own grave. Slinking arms and sleepy hands came to scrub at his blearily blinking eyes before abruptly stretching wide with alarm. He scrambled out and about, peering inch by inch, prying back and forth, until Wrench pressed a tender forefinger to the belatedly obtained journal. The witch saw his mild motion and stilled to static, frozen yet buzzing, closely observing the touch tested atop his treasure and the man that belonged to it. Wrench kept his gaze near to the darker draping across his own and steadily slid the book his way, a peace offering if any olive branch could be achieved, before bolting shut once more and casually returning to his attended fire. The corner of his eyes caught the witch plucking the bound collection from the dust, inspecting it swiftly and suspiciously, as he would quickly come to know any alteration that blessed its pages, before setting it aside and sighing. As lost as he could be he did not allow such musings and looked to the dampening dusk above, just as he had done in trek of his jewel of a journal. He seemed to collect himself, his status, his whereabouts, before his lips began to forge croaking inquiries. 

“How long has it been?”

Wrench turned his way fully then, after one final prod at the toiling embers, and perked an eyebrow, a claim to “What,” the witch was quick to catch.

“A day or a couple days?”

Wrench managed a purposely burdensome blink before holding up a singular finger.

The witch blinked back more bothered than he had come to realize. “One? One day?” Only a curt nod from the cowboy came in return, who distinguished the witch’s dull curse of “Damn,” just as he caught him looking far off into the now dimming landscape once more. The minutes followed as such, puzzling yet serene in resting rays of the sinking sun, Wrench working the fire till it was prepped completely and the witch finding his new place in the world through pensive ponderings. His contemplation closed in on the cowboy, flicking over his stocky stature swiftly and offering more mum words, Wrench peering his way just as they tumbled forward. 

“They call me Numbers.” Another nod from the cowboy who crept into becoming another of the all-knowing kind to Numbers’ developing judgment. He paused patiently, expecting an introduction from his aloof savior only to be met with empty air and a standoffish stare. _If this guy was gracious enough to save my sorry ass why is he being such a bastard about it now?_ Numbers locked his jaw tight as a jail cell to keep his tongue from waging noxiously. Despite himself and the cowboy now turning away once more, he continued onward with pleasantries. “I meant to thank you, I guess, but I can’t even remember what happened yesterday besides the whole, you know, you saving my skin part. Which I’m grateful for, honestly.” Of course, no reply came, only the emitting aura of silent, menacing annoyance. Almost quite literally biting his tongue, in a last ditch effort he proceeded straight to the matter of things. “When is the next town?” But nothing seemed to break the savior’s streak of stubborn stillness and Numbers’ tongue pressed furiously to the gates of his teeth, pleading for confrontation of which his arms gladly abided to. 

Snatching at the fringe running along the cowboy’s side, his fingers snapped savagely and pulled, the gunslinger moving more sensitively to his tassels than harm to his own physical form. The bright eyes pierced through the dim twilight air, crackling with the flames as they swelled filled to burst in front of the witch. Not desiring to collect popped eyeballs in his lap he released the fringe jacket, but stayed close within the space, a dominate move crying for attention to which Wrench begrudgingly allowed. 

“Listen, buddy, I appreciate what you did and all, but-“ 

The cowboy’s presence had already drifted, taking a spoon in hand as speech faded to him.

“-don’t expect me to kiss your feet and call you righteous. I-“ His words were clipped to metal being dug jaggedly into dirt, scrawling slowly yet with such determination his touch nearly burned through the arid earth to its twisting and troubled center. Numbers allowed himself to freeze, mouth hanging open in anger only to quietly close upon understanding. At his feet, inscribed in the ground was a singular word of entire explanation.

 _DEAF_.

For once, Numbers found himself dumbfounded as well as apologetic, and staggeringly he sat back. Wrench dropped the spoon back to the dirt beside his scrawling and looked back to the witch, brow lowered in immediate defense, though Numbers’ expression spoke of true peace. However, he already appeared able and quick to manipulate his exterior, so just what could the cowboy really come to believe as sincere as opposed to deceitful? _In a world where magic is claimed to be real_ , Wrench added to himself, keeping his guard all the more raised as Numbers’ lips tangled yet again. He pointed as they danced casually. 

“You can read lips though?” 

Wrench kept his eyes roped down from reeling and nodded rather bluntly. Numbers replied with the same. Sign was not one of the handful of languages he had come to collect in his teachings and he couldn’t help biting his lip with a pinch of guilt. His head rocked again, shaking from side to side as to draw Wrench’s attention back his way. His face seemed to sneer, though in reality it was nothing but the peeking of a clumsy grin, and he shrugged with stale disposition. 

“I’m sorry, but how long till the next town?” 

Wrench drew his hands just barely apart, but long enough a gap for onlookers to spy through.

“Close enough.” Another rallying of nods and individual gestures of contemplation as Numbers gathered his curt continuation. “Let’s get going.” 

Wrench shook his head to the demand, throwing Numbers into the deepest breath that had ever rocked his body, just under the inhale that had cleared his throat when being miraculously freed of the noose. Wrench was the apt cause for each of them as the times currently tallied, and could only expect to motivate more in their time together. Numbers’ words began to grit around his teeth, like sand lingering on his tongue. 

“Okay, why not?”

The cowboy pointed promptly to Numbers’ general vicinity and then gruffly to the ground at their feet.

“I’m not staying here!”

Another rattling of Wrench’s head and point to Numbers, though this time followed with his hands gently clasped palm to palm resting under the side of his head like a downy feathered pillow. 

“Sleep? Wait, are you telling me I should rest? What are you, my fucking physician?”

Wrench followed with a nod of confirmation, fingers dancing into the actual sign for “rest” as he did so. Numbers came to mime it with him, but waved it off at the end with such sarcastic bewilderment, his body rocking with the concept.

“I just want to get out of your hair, mister,” when really he wanted to get out of his entire presence, “I don’t need rest.”

He was met with the gaze of a daunting brick wall, halting him steeply in his tracks and allowing for no argument against his orders. He had come long enough for the fellow at his side, and if he dropped dead from too much work on so little rest, it would make the journey all the more useless and Wrench did not desire the notion of such plaguing his mind for the rest of his waking days. In proving his very own point, he passed the wineskin from his hip over to the increasingly ragged and frazzled looking witch, who fumbled for it clumsily until it was clutched safely between his shaking hands. He looked back to Wrench as if he had offered him more salvation than his life secured in his debt as he had done previously. Wrench only bowed to him in offering and before his chin could be even remotely raised the witch was pulling the water between savoring lips as if such an element had not touched them fully for weeks or, better yet, even months. And perhaps it hadn’t. It tumbled down the side of his mouth like the scattered trickling of a wild waterfall, and only after several deep, desperate mouthfuls did he released the wineskin weakly. Letting it drop to his lap, almost begrudgingly so, he glanced back to the cowboy feebly, met with a wagging eyebrow that settled him securely in his spot, bitter but accepting. He swayed in his seat, a movement Wrench translated to “Fine, but this is not for you.”

As the sun officially set beyond the cliff sides flecking about the horizon, night stretching its arms wide in welcome to take custody of the darkened sky, Numbers saw Wrench’s hands flicking about in the light of the lapping flames. He shrugged his shoulders and drew an imaginary noose around his neck. Shrugging again he knocked the question into Numbers’ hands. 

Stuttering in translation he spouted, “What did I do to get up there, you mean?”

Wrench nodded and pantomimed in the dancing light of the fire like a conductor madly winding a bustling tune together. Number ushered him to take his time and there in they went to and fro, miming and translating and best one could do.

“What? Me, yeah? Is… Did I, what, have sex- alright, alright, sex, I get it. Me, sex, what about it? Ring finger… Are you asking if I plowed somebody’s wife? Because the answer is fuck no.”

Wrench shrugged again in great exaggeration to reiterate his original inquiry. Numbers looked at him lowly, a glaze of “Are you serious?” dripping down his face with the raise of his eyebrows. With a modest respiration he brightened with his own embellishing gesture. A wave of his hands, a showman opening the curtains to a lone yet incredibly fascinating word draped in a smile. 

“Magic~”

Wrench kept staring in wait for the witch to explain himself further, but instead the luminous farce of an expression and presentation faded rather suddenly, and they were both left to stare. Wrench cocked his head back with mild concern.

_Really?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days passed by with low activity as to not push the witch further into exhaustion, as the meaning of their stay was recuperation after all. Wrench exclusively attended to the providing of food and water, as well as scouting in look out for which town they should hop to next. While he took to testing Outlaw against the terrain, Numbers remained stagnant back at camp, merely busied by cloud watching and star gazing. Wrench would often return to their encampment to find him muttering to himself, once more in tangled speech he could not unwind no matter how closely he peered. With that, Numbers tended not to carry on with his whisperings upon the cowboy’s return and instead would confront him with questions of his own whereabouts that day. A tumble of graciously gifted clothes thrown his way in preparation for the coming journey managed to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

Their conversations remained difficult and rather tedious, grappling with charades and interpretations to each which resulted in their dialogues being short-lived, left behind when one party decided it was too tiresome of an activity to maintain any longer. However, strenuous as the swapping speech was, it worked well in slowly introducing Numbers to the language of Sign, which he was surprisingly eager to master in their temporary partnership together. Wrench found it endearing if anything, and as aggravating as Numbers tended to be to him in nature, he was a stunningly swift student. The cowboy supposed it came hand-in-hand with his personal desire to slice another notch in his ever expanding language belt, nothing more. 

Yet, it was no matter to Wrench then, as it was the cresting morning of their journey onward to another town. Saddle and supplies already packed, the cowboy was prepared at dawn’s languid rising, though his companion was nowhere near as such. A swift nudge to his snuggled side had roused him, however, as if he had never been asleep at all, but he fell back to sluggishness rather quickly and Wrench declared it was nothing but an act of spite. Another quick kick and the witch eventually stumbled to his waking feet, ready to clamber alongside Wrench and set off to much coveted independence. With a generously offered gesture, Wrench took hold of the witch’s now strengthened hand and helped to sling his gate atop Outlaw.

Wrench had been accurate in his declaration of the town being “close enough” in relation to them, noon settling high above their heads just as they caught glimpse of the long awaited settlement tingling like a mirage in the distance. Numbers felt Outlaw begin to skip faster on his hooved feet, galloping to an oasis if ever he had seen one. The riders residing along his back silently thanked him in quickening their departure, truly he was the noblest of steeds. 

The town they trekked hastily towards was much less toughened as their last visited selection had been. Instead, it appeared just as dusty and driven as any other western settlement at their fingertips, though it was clearly fueled by the beating heart of many employed footsteps along its rough territory. With the brisk bumps of life thudding against the skin of the town, their carriers flowed through the streets like the lively pumping of blood from one location to the next. The town was active, busy, and, best of all, occupied, easily allowing for the two previously acclaimed rebels to slip within its bounds like a subtle knife between rigid ribs. 

They dismounted coolly as two strangers were nothing out of the ordinary to the bustling settlement, and stepped up to its main street as if meeting a forked pathway rather than a singular, straightforward road. Now was their fated meeting at the crossroads, each going their separate ways with nothing but a spry wave and fleeing steps. Though Numbers remained still at the opening road before him and turned smoothly to Wrench, flashing him an even-tempered smile that composed the cowboy for a peaceful parting. 

“What’s your name?”

Wrench spelled it out diligently, every letter now more or less clear to his companion, and Numbers shook his head at the completed word.

“Well, _Wrench_ , it was nice meeting you.” He gestured his own final thanks in farewell and picked up his pace into the swelling river of the road, disappearing like a sinking stone within the depths. Wrench watched after him for a few select moments, mulling over the last few days as if they had been a dream altogether, before stepping into the nearest saloon for a much needed finger, or two, or three, of whiskey. 

The doors lazily swung in his passing, shifting back and forth as if buzzed much like the occupants inside to whom they protected. Only a few resided inside during the blistering midday, most simply taking shelter from the sweltering sun, others already beating the night crowd of busy bar hoppers by growing intoxicated in the afternoon. Wrench ignored prying eyes and sent a sole wave the bartender’s way, receiving a brief nod in return as he managed the tipsy patron at the very end of the counter. The man seemed that he had remained their sleeplessly all the previous night, his eyes wild though languidly drooping in their drunkenness, shifting in their states just as he did upon his stool. The bartender slid away down the bar, the patron becoming then more interested in his own companion. Together they presented as a rodent like bunch, the drunken consumer much akin to a weasel, his partner taking that of a squirrely appearance, and Wrench was enjoying their vermin demeanor if not becoming bothered by it just as the bartender came to serve him. Knocking a glass by Wrench’s awaiting hand they met in glances, the cowboy throwing his head the rodent bunch’s way in question of their behavior. The barkeeper shook his own head softly, leaning to Wrench in order to whisper though he did not offer the crook of his ear, only stared curiously at his lips as they spelled out a reply.

“The boy has been here all night, practically sleeping on the porch outside. His buddy came in to collect him, thank god, but it don’t seem to be working none.” His gaze slung back to the end of the bar where the weasel man, the culprit Wrench assumed, was beckoning him back to which he begrudgingly abided, bowing in stature. 

Wrench bided his own time and attention to the freshly poured shot in front of him, managing to gulp it down bitterly and return it back to the bar just as it shook violently underneath him. Eyes immediately flying to the pair at the end of the counter, Wrench saw that the weasel was practically climbing over to grab awkwardly at the keep on the other side, slurring spit furiously in his face in drunken dispute against him. Though his squirrely counterpart held tightly to his backside, he had just barely managed to tug him away as Wrench came to stand opposite them, a towering force rising in resistance. Though the squirrel came to shudder backwards stuttering his own meek apology, the weasel stood as tall as he could come to pull himself, which was not very much. The squirrel hopped next to him in retaliation to the aggressive spirit, spewing plea after apologetic plea to his partner.

“Rye, for Christ’s sake, would you lay off!”

The man shook himself in response, never breaking the contact that him and Wrench now steadily held together. “No, no, no, I’m going to handle this! You want a fight, big guy, I’ll…“ Though the speech was snapped short -not that it was the least bit important anyway- and not because Wrench had now retrieved his restless revolver from its holster. No, his gaze was now caught by something dwelling upon the cowboy’s face, or possibly even the cowboy’s face as whole. He loomed inward and up to him, Wrench’s fist clenching by his side as the liquor lipped rioter came to blow breath bathed in booze over his face in closer inspection. The weasel, a man named Rye, practically hollered in his rejoice of his revelation, hounding the man to his side to “Look, look at the poster! That’s him, alright!” Wrench watched wearily as the squirrely fellow withdrew a flyer passed from Rye’s coat pocket, Rye himself drawing his own gun in agreement with Wrench’s, signaling to the saloon’s swinging doors with the end of the barrel. 

“Meet me outside, why don’t you, and I can get to business.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, I mean, shouldn’t you just hold him till your family-“

“No, Skip! I’m taking care of this with or without them. I’ll have his body in a burlap sack and then they’ll have to be thanking me for once! Come on big guy, you and me.” 

Wrench was eager enough just to leave the two there in their clouded quarrel, and in fact, would have stepped away if not for the wanted poster gripped in Skip’s shaking and sweating hands. If he was, indeed, in need of capturing once more, the best option was to run, but firstly he thought it just to deal with the man fighting for the right to his neck, even if it was haphazardly. 

The bar emptied into the streets which cleared in their clamoring entry, some shrill pedestrians already shrieking their muffled protests and fleeing to nearby residency where they could keep a much interested eye upon the action, but more securely and safely. Wrench balanced himself center stage and awaited his opponent, the swishing and stuttering drunk across from him, to hold his weapon clear. He only needed to slug a bullet in his knee, that was all. No unnecessary blood needed to seep into the soil at his feet as an offering to the wicked. _Shoot when he tries to, wound him and bolt_ , was the cardinal rule calling to Wrench and he palmed at his gun in preparation to aim as Rye falsely assumed him ready to step as long as he was facing down the business end of the barrel. He rambled on in protest to his destiny, it seemed, now finally crafting success as his own with the bounty standing stock and steady in front of him. 

He beamed brightly, like a beast ready to bite, accepting Wrench’s death wish as nature fed it to him and whining out, “I’m a Gerhardt! And I don’t need no moon to tell me when and where I can do things! Go on, where’s your friend, huh, so I can get to killing you.” He pulled the hammer of his gun back with a lick of his lips in confident and cocky manner just as Wrench caught a familiar dark form skipping towards him at the edge of his vision. Numbers’ hand came to claw at his upper arm and before Wrench could question his unusual arrival, the ground below them began to tremble with tireless tremors. The vibrations rocked forward from their feet, trudging towards Wrench’s adversary with crackling quickness. The ground crumbled in its advancing progression, simple slips of the decrepit earth only growing and growing into splintering fragments as they closed in around the criminal, inscriptions of snakes ready to sweep his feet away from under him. The rifts slipped to sand as they swam around Rye’s standing, the dust appearing to climb up the cuff of his pant leg in eager effort, though Wrench could not come to believe that. He caught Numbers’ lips moving again, sculpting the speech for which he had no knowledge of, quickening in utterance with every cracking crevice that was created. As the dreary dirt danced to smooth sand it was as if he were hissing, and as Rye began to sink into the earth despite his struggles, screeching and begging anew now draped in cowardice in what parts of his body remained along the surface, Wrench was being torn away from the scene as rapidly as he could take it in with a clear mind. 

He ran with Numbers as if he were built for it, and they climbed together onto Outlaw like a couple of slick bandits cutting a quick escape out of a rioting town, a familiar feeling for the pair as they streaked speedily away from the bustling streets of the once promising settlement. No mob came streaking at their heels but that of Wrench’s sane thoughts coming to knock him back to earth, and he glanced over his shoulder to Numbers despite himself, in full question of what had happened behind them as his spectacularly puzzling brain came rearing its head upon his shoulders once more. Had he really seen a sinkhole spontaneously pull a man into the earth under his feet or was it maybe something foul that had fallen into his whiskey? Was that treacherous preacher right all along in his accusations? Had Numbers really not taken to the preacher’s wife behind his back? His only valuable explanation flew from his thoughts into the whirling wind racing by his ears as he saw Numbers reimagined in his vision, parting the curtains with the flourish of his hands, whispering “Magic~” However, before his dizzying declarations could drive his remaining sanity officially from his now leaking roof of a mind, Numbers was howling for him to look where he was going, and they streaked like a comet on hurried hooves as if no rest had ever been taken between them. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours passed over the troubled settlement once the dust settled not only over Rye’s head but along the road as the rebels took to racing away as well. With their departure came the setting sun and streaks of vibrant purple akin to those adorning a stranger’s suit as he stepped into the still startled saloon. The blues near the moon and reds still bursting along the rim of the sun that resulted in the violet mixing in their center were also draped in the coats of two dual companions at the stranger’s sides. The trio of setting colors sheltered in the shadows did not station themselves calmly in the tavern, but rather stood in question, particularly about the happenstance earlier that evening and as to why everyone was so frightened, the purple figure shivering in mock of the townspeople as he inquired to the bartender, who eyed the lot of them as curiously as he did defensively. Enough funny folk had been walking in and out of the town as of late, stirring up dust that had no need of being stirred, so his reply came rather harshly to them as he explained. Troublesome people being troublesome.

“Oh well boys, we better hustle out of here. This settlement doesn’t like excitement very much.”

“Not of the dangerous variety, no, in fact we don’t. So, if you’re looking for the fellas that raged out of here faster than green grass through a goose, then head south. Otherwise, get out of this town.”

The stranger in purple pleasantly smirked, though the two other’s frowned by his sides. He offered hands of peace and fully smiled, sharp teeth shining in shifting light of the oil lamp flames. The trio saw the bartender’s heat hightail a retreat from head to toe as the purple stranger took a smooth step back towards the saloon doors, voice singing like a misleading melody as he moved.

“We were just curious is all. A couple of travelers going in and out, from town to town, never ready to settle as long as there are stories to be told. But if you don’t want to tell us stories we can be on our way. We know you already had enough toil and trouble with that dog of a man earlier. Perhaps we can help you next time they come along, which should be soon, my good man. Fair warning. Have a good night.” The teeth winked the bartender’s way once more before the trio was gone in a swift swirl of coat tails and swaying saloon doors. The bartender took the shot by his hand, meant for the nearby patron, who was preoccupied with ogling at the empty space left behind by the three men who he swore were there just split seconds ago. Clutching the glass in frosting fidgeting hands, he downed the liquor thankful for its coming warmth and common sense as it bloomed in his chest. He felt more trouble looming underfoot, and, quite unsure of how to handle the matter, poured himself another shot, this one a double.


	3. S01E03

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Numbers reveals the nature of magic to his newly acquired partner who begins to question the peaceful life he has come to desire. As they share in revelation together, the wicked holy men set off in search of more witches to condemn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A simple chapter with more action sure to come. Despite it being mostly descriptions, please let me know how it's going and a quick thank you to anyone who has been doing so! You are the best and the sweetest. I hope you enjoy this chapter, thank you for reading~
> 
> Disclaimer: The more or less line from the first chapter still stands. Wrench is very much catching the gist of Numbers' speeches and not miraculously catching every last word falling forward as if it's that easy. He is collecting information and following due action. Carry on!

Wrench pushed Outlaw onward and onward as if trying to outrun his very own consciousness. Though he felt Numbers tugging at his back, practically felt his biting breath begging him to stop already, he found no such desire to pause in their getaway. Coming to a stop meant asking questions and Wrench had a need to prepare said questions before stepping down and presenting them. He kept Outlaw’s feet flying as far and fast as he could until the steed and steady companion both came to hassling his halt, to which he eventually complied, a firm frown pulling his lips fairly thin as he adjusted the reins to a slackening pace. Both Numbers and Outlaw seemed to sigh out together gratefully as Wrench finally encouraged a full stop and dismount. Though, while Numbers clamored down to the dust eagerly, peering about his new surroundings with a brisk air following his swiveling head, Wrench remained stationed atop Outlaw, even as the stallion’s legs teetered in place in passive signal to depart. He searched Numbers meticulously just as Numbers went about searching the horizon with a similar pesky quality. He was muttering and, thankfully, Wrench could translate the movement of his lips.

“Wow, big guy, I have to hand it to you,” he was sharing with him then as he turned fully into his presence, “You got us to the Nebraskan boarder quicker than the damn Pony Express. But why in the hell-“

Wrench finally danced downward to Numbers’ level approaching him cautiously, yet rather excitedly, the words of deconstructed questions buzzing about from one part of his body to the other wildly. _Did that really just happen?_ his queasy stomach came to stutter. _Was it you who did that?_ his brain bickered over now brittle nerves. _Are you really dangerous?_ his itching trigger fingers inquired viciously. However, while he dreamed his hands dancing in anxious attempt to acquire answers, he found himself with his feet dragging nearly limp through dust closing in on Numbers, bright eyes howling, jaw twisted tight. Numbers lingered in place, though shifted slightly with every sluggish step the gunslinger made. He stilled just in front of the witch, now very apparent in his appropriate title, and looked down like a daunting mountain peak, the silent unforgiving aura of an all-knowing god at its very top pluming about in his judgement turned downward. Numbers’ tongue lightly pressed to his dry lips with anticipation as well as preparation, an antsy action in desired escape from the bulging eyes burrowing into his own. His body swelled in staggering stance standing taller, moving from feet to shoulders till bursting through his throat and smoking through his teeth. 

“ _What!?_ ”

The singular exclamation was enough to be a catalyst in greasing Wrench’s palms to bloom and sway in a wild wind. His gestures rash and raving, he spilled in motion every questions his body had constructed underneath his crawling, craving skin and more. _What was that? Am I insane? What else can you do? Should I have let them kill you? Should I kill you myself? Who are you!?_ Over and over he bellowed with bursting hands before Numbers came to still him. Holding tightly to his own hair and whining “Wait, wait, wait,” his own loose hand begging in its motion with him, until Wrench adhered, returning to tension. Numbers admitted to still not knowing most of what he was saying which allowed them time to take a much needed breath. 

The witch sighed his way, “I went a bit overboard back there. I haven’t used magic in a while and I, you know…“ Half his sentence was swallowed up into stiff air as Wrench came to spinning in place with the call upon “magic”, spurred boots ringing over quieting words as he kicked them about frantically. Numbers allowed him his delirious hustle in the dust until he was facing his way and shrugging with the force of a double-barreled shotgun. Numbers, having already collected his strained respiration, looked back to the bustling cowboy calmly, knowing all the questions that crept and clambered behind his wide eyes as they pressed into his. Uncertain of how to answer them fully, he just held up a finger to Wrench, a beckoning for time and patience. 

“I’ll show you, alright? Just, get a fire going while I unpack.” 

Wrench nodded to him curtly, even though Numbers failed to acknowledge it himself. Wrench kept to striking the fire as he was told, more so in quenching his own impatience for answers than obedience to his companion. The flames came to nestle together rather quickly, much to Wrench’s liking, though the witch took his time in setting up camp. Eventually, upon growing restless with watching the licking tongues of the fire and knocking his jittering leg about in the dirt, he aided the witch in camp preparation, even going as far to collect water in Numbers’ request. When he returned, the camp was settled sturdily, Numbers standing by the fire and watching as if in a dream himself, only falling back to earth in Wrench’s heavy footed nearing. The black eyes seemed to swim with such elaborate mystery than Wrench had ever known, trembling with the very flickering of the flames that seemed his spirit incarnate outside his physical being. Holding his imagination by the throat choked by anticipation and passing the now full wineskin the witch’s way, he cleared his body of speculation and simply stood to observing. Numbers took the wineskin and placed it down by his feet, making sure Wrench was watching attentively before finally beginning to explain.

“Obviously, I’m a witch.” He ignored a very weary and tired glazed glare from Wrench before continuing. “Some people are born with it, some are blessed, others can teach it to themselves. My family, specifically the Tripoli line of them, has been practicing magic for years, practically thriving on it. No, completely thriving on it. Our magical bloodline is connected to business, but uh I guess that’s beside the point. Look, you start out with the basics, something I was taught very early on from my mother. All magic and magical force comes from the world around us right now. The world is made from the four elements and that is where magic stems from. Manipulation of those four elements is the simplest magic to learn, but also the most powerful. While my father’s side dabbles in the darker arts, my mother made sure I had mastered The Four. So, that’s what I’m going to show you, okay?”

Caught up once more in a rally of questions and very many cautionary concerns, Wrench allowed himself a blunt nod of confirmation and watched as Numbers continued.

“Through spoken word, chanting, talking, anything that involves the use of languages, witches can request to manipulate The Four. So, for now, I’ll use Latin. It’s the most simple in being rooted to action and access you could say.”

Wrench watched as his shoulders bobbed up with his breath, like an ocean rising and falling coolly in its tides. His eyes fluttered as if newly cleansed as his lips whispered forward words of which Wrench could still manage to interpret. “Wind is one of the easiest because it’s so free to flow already. Though, being so free it tends to rebel.” Wrench saw Numbers pledge a liking for the element before his mouth set loose to foreign words and the cowboy was brought to taking in his surroundings. Numbers began to chant a singular word, the basic utterance of wind to call it forth to his want and need. Wrench felt the breeze pick up through his fingers and kissing at his ears as it swung and slithered around him delicately, drifting through the two present for the calling as if it were nothing but a playful spirit come to toy with the living. The words shifted, called to an action, and morphed in complexity, the breeze swirling more powerfully around them, imploring earnestly for an honest dance and prance before quelling its desires and settling to a ring around their feet. The dust residing there took shape to its form, giving it a rather joyous, capricious appearance as it presented itself forward, romping a Ring Around the Rosie about their ankles. The ring tightened, passing through their legs with ease and simplicity as was known to dwell within the breeze, though it swelled in force upon its very constriction. Numbers’ hands molded it, encouraged it, as it churned and twirled and whirled into a wild vortex between them both. The fire shuddered in its manic dance, dust draping the wind like a felicitous dress of swirling lace and silk as the tornado at their center soared and swiveled, encouraging movement in the onlookers, though nothing was granted but gawking in return. Numbers allowed it a few seconds more of flirting with the cowboy before ceasing his slithering tongue, the wind whipping into nothingness as the words faded from its medium. The dust dispersed in its drifting disappearance and fell faintly back to their feet, the final resting place in their quaking desire for return of the whimsical wind. 

Wrench dizzily watched as the dirt returned to stagnation, as he did justly from his dream like premonition. His eyes found Numbers once more, in question of the zephyr’s reality and in request for more. Before he allowed Numbers’ lips to wag again, however, he gestured to the ground from which the wind had previously paced. He pointed and placed a finger lightly to his lips, indicating to the witch that he was expressing the word for the current demonstration of the element, and turned his hands to wavering as if they were the wind themselves. Numbers found himself patiently nodding and honing the movement of the sign, setting its essence deep inside his palms, before progressing onward. He plucked the wineskin from the ground and freed the pouch of its plug before meeting with Wrench.

“Water is as free flowing and forceful as wind, but with a presence. Wind can’t be molded. Water can and that’s what makes it unique in purpose.” With one hand clutching the wineskin in place, his other came beside it as his tongue began to tut in its beckoning. The wineskin shivered, its insides quivering in their call, before slipping out of its mouth almost reluctant in weight. The liquid slid like a boisterous and bubbled stream into his awaiting grasp, and he held it as if it were a delicate and fragile creature ready to flee with the flinch of a finger. He whispered to it, quietly in command for it to turn as the Wind had done before it. The Water practically dipped into a bow as it, very slowly but surely, came to form a whirlpool in the center of his hand. It kissed his skin, just as lapping waves lick at the sands of a beach, and was gentle in its tranquil turning, placidly pirouetting above his palm in fine replication of a prima ballerina. Numbers watched languidly with its swaying and swirling, his lips smoothly forming its very shape, before a sharp hiss billowed its way, sending it shuttering. Ice trickled from its base, long fingers of cold coursing through its depths as swooping tendrils jaggedly frosted its surface, forming tenderly transfixing patterns until the shivering whirlpool was completely frozen and splintered. As the once flowing element fell into the witches welcoming hand, Wrench felt the black gaze coaxing him but did not look up from the ornament of ice even as the lips sent a single command forth once more. The ice dissipated as swiftly as it had come to form and water splayed with a splash across Numbers’ palm, spilling and spluttering through his fingers as he freed it from its frigid prison. Wrench finally met with Numbers once more as the wineskin was passed to him followed by a gesture of thanks from the witch. The cowboy motioned a gesture himself, the blunt sign for water, and went to placing the wineskin with his saddle bag as Numbers came to become clear in welcoming another element across his skin. His eyes were closed, lips set in calmly acknowledging what was to follow.

“Then there’s Earth. You saw that earlier. But it doesn’t only belong to the craggy base at our feet.” He tapped his foot gently as if to keep the ground below them at bay before uttering a chain of chants, his palms open in glad reception and greeting of The Earth, prepared to embrace whatever it was that crawled across his skin there. Wrench observed, rather amazed then, as green, growing moss lazily came to cling upon his hands as if it were long weathered and awaiting stone. It brushed the tips of his fingers, mild and tender in its nestling presence, even forming to Numbers’ hands as he stretched to their shifting positions. The growth, as soft in caressing his palm as Numbers was in calling its flourish, settled like a plush covering of his skin and nuzzled into his warmth as fondly as a fluttering bird does its nest. His lips, though dry now, continued onward in their magical mantra, and whispered forth rotation at the moss’ center with hushed words. As if quietly crooning a wake up call, flowers came to peak just above the lush green in his palm in search of much desired daylight. They swayed into the shining beams and bloomed in the brightness, vivid in color and complexity, and yes, Wrench noted, completely real. The cowboy could not help but approach the conjuring then, hoping not to break whatever words the witch was weaving, in order to simply slide a thumb along a soft petal in testing of its genuine existence. They lingered, taken entirely by the sun above, stretching eagerly towards it like children excited to fall into their guardian’s arms. The twisting vines of their bases gripped fondly at Wrench’s warm touch and embraced him gingerly as he came to certify the life they came to breathe. The very breath they sapped from the palm of which they sprouted. Wrench saw the source begin to tremble, eyes swinging up Numbers’ form, catching the quivering of a wheeze in his throat and a concealed cough as he met his lips. The hand ripped the blooms away then, the moss loosening its tender hold of the skin and crumbling to the dirt for which it returned lovingly although it dissolved to dust itself. Numbers raised a hand to Wrench’s offered inquiries and aides and slumped to the ground rather exhausted, but if only for a brief moment. Wrench came to sit closely alongside him, just in front of the still blustering fire, and continued to keep an eye on the witch until he assured him of his returning health. Care in the face of utter amazement. Numbers’ breathing aligned properly to nature and he rubbed his hands together to keep any lasting growth from latching on.

“The bastards were greedy. See, when it comes to Earth, it's life force you’re dealing with. Nobody should be messing with life force, but if you do come to creating life in your hands like I just did, then you have to pay the price for that. Tit for tat, eye for an eye, because life can’t be formed in and of itself alone. It’s a process of equal exchange. To give life you have to sacrifice other’s, you know?” 

Wrench agreed, not only in understanding, but in the long ago teachings of his father that came to rear their ugly head upon the offered question. But he kept to nodding, not pondering, and purposed another sign for his companion, two that came intertwined together in similarity and purpose, plant and growth, to which Numbers mimicked with him in the quaking heat of the fire. They let their hands maneuver about until the witch was forming them justly to Wrench’s liking and they quieted in action. Wrench mulled in his bewildered state, barely noticing Numbers’ lips coming to play again at the last remaining element of The Four. It was harsh, Wrench knew that better than any other clear thinking creature dwelling the land, but as Numbers twisted his tongue he crafted it to sheer beauty out of the corner of Wrench’s eye. 

In the pit of the fire a shape started to fashion itself together. It lapped like the flames around it, as it was bound to the same means of creation, but danced to a different jagged rhythm then the encompassing bonfire. They appeared to move towards Wrench as he sat still outside and away from them though he felt their advancing and growing heat across his chest. The image developed with every coiling contort of the flames, reds taking shape to shadows and oranges manifesting into the bold outbreak of living pictures. From the center of the fire galloped forth a herd of wild horses through a field ablaze at their fleeting feet. They sparked with twitching neighs and whinnies, racing around the bonfire as if it were no different from the regularly expanding plains of home. One of them, a particularly defined stallion with a mane of prickling yellow and arid heat, halted in his progression and reared up triumphantly in front of Wrench, the fire’s center blazing like the sun cresting the horizon line behind him. Wrench turned to the witch, just as the stallion of fire came back to earth, tramping about energetically beside the other members of the heard. Numbers’ lips never settled, but rather forged the complex means for which the flames to adhere to nimbly and restlessly, his fingers aiding in their craft and construction as he continued to recite the everlasting hymn. However, the images of untamed, freedom preaching steeds, came to fade just as the words failed to fall from Numbers’ lips when he glanced back to meet Wrench’s still bubbling bright gaze. Wrench seemed to lower from the clouded daze of his surreal trance and offered the jittering sign for fire, much like the element itself in motion. Numbers followed and their hands danced together in motion until Numbers came to still, Wrench following in his fading, the two only remaining in their shared and steady eye contact. Wrench saw the breath enter Numbers in preparation of proposition and he looked to his lips that were no more tired in their exertion than when they had first begun. _Always a talker_.

“Listen, I know we’ve been rubbing each other the wrong way these past few days, but it looks like we’re in this together now. That’s my fault as much as it is your’s. You put your own ass up for the noose when you decided to save mine and now we’re both wanted. I don’t know about you, but I think we can make a decent enough team. So, how about we keep to saving each other’s skin?”

Wrench, especially upon this discovery of an entirely new element of danger, knew he was in need of assisted protection, as was the witch looking earnestly before him. They each had a world in needing of guarding against to which they knew very little and Wrench couldn’t help but agree with Numbers. Though, the real danger came from the fact that Wrench himself knew of the magical world now, possibly opening many more doors for which he needed to hide from. He was entangled with Numbers now, knotted so tightly in their bounds that Wrench could not pry himself away no matter how fast he came to run. The hunters would follow, he knew that just as he had known any other time in his life he had managed a bounty stamped across his head. He knew that they would come in search of him, in search of the witch in his wake, and he would have to fight tooth and nail with or without magical assistance. He was tied to another world, another man, and there was no escaping that. He had made sure of that when he fired the noose loose upon the gallows. He was accepting it now, just as he was accepting he did not want such power of which Numbers’ possessed hurtling towards him like a musket shot from the opposite side of the battlefield. He was wise in acknowledging every inch, crevice, and loophole within the proposition, just as Numbers was, and he offered a stiff hand in conclusion. The witch looked to it kindly and held Wrench’s gaze as he came to hold his hand. They shook then, a partnership pact made in knowing there was no untangling their now united fates. 

“Great! Then where do you suggest we go next if we want to keep away from prying eyes?”

Wrench broke their bond in order to scrawl in the loose dirt with his finger after a moment’s thought. They needed bustling, they needed busy, and they needed massively populated with people preoccupied with other business concerning their individual status. A fading gold rush, maybe. They needed what Wrench came to write in the dust at their feet.

 _SAN FRANCISCO_.

As night came to reign in the darkening sky, stars blinking bright in their eager awakening, Numbers offered to take first watch for the night, now that they had to keep an eye open in lookout for their wanted heads. Wrench let him have the position, feeling the exhaustion of what arrogance had been strangled and wrung clean out of him that day set deep inside not only his aching muscles, but aching soul. He fell into the tent completely thankful for solitude as he closed his eyes and welcomed the blank promise of darkness. Though the words of his father continued to skip across his consciousness, never to be forgotten it seemed. _Kill or be killed_ , they preached and Wrench gritted his teeth bitterly. Perhaps, in a world where such things as magic came to silently rule, there was no room for going straight. Wrench questioned his dream of peace, his desire for quiet and honest work, and watched as it collapsed in his head space with the cardinal rule of his father. _Kill or be killed_. Wrench accepted it, took to it as his body took to sleep, and he toppled into dreaming with nothing left to hold him in reality.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two holy man came to grace the still unsettled ground of the settlement previously explored by the witch, the cowboy, the Gerhardt boy, as well as the trio of sunset strangers. Pastor Nygaard and Reverend Malvo waltzed the streets, fully aware of the swallowing up that had occurred before their arrival. Lorne kicked at the dust now stiffened in the center of the street as Lester looked to him for guidance.

“You want me to get a horse and set out? By myself?”

“Yes, Lester, you’ve done it before.”

“I know, Reverend, but not in this manner, I mean, not this _far!_ ”

“Brother,” Lorne came to straighten and offer a hand to the quivering preacher who seemed to shake as if he stood upon the ground when it had come to quake. Lester edged away nervously despite himself, but managed to keep his body rigid as Lorne came to place gentle comfort across his stiffened shoulder. “I have faith in you. I must remain here and take care of this mysterious business that has cursed this town.”

“I-I know, Reverend-“

“Then why do you question me?”

“I don’t! I just, well, I want to make sure I do you… justice. In judgment of this girl.”

“You will. Like I said, I have complete faith in you. Here.” He smoothly scrounged for something hiding within the inner pockets of his dangling fur trimmed traveling coat. His hand rose from dwelling darkness clenched around whatever it is he had been digging for to which Lester questioned deeply. “Your hand, Brother.” Once more hypnotized by the promise of equal standing, Lester offered a now stilling and splayed hand to the Reverend as he opened his hand, plucking a silver cleverly crafted ring from his palm, and placing it with phantom inspired grace upon Lester’s finger. A singular cross was forged atop the shining silver and Lester looked back to Lorne with eyes gleaming as lustrously as the ring itself out of nervousness as well as pride and honor. Lorne met him merely with an honest nod, a bow as Lester took it, saying “So that He knows you work in His name.”

Lester stuttered out a weak, “Of course,” before taking his hand back into his own possession and admiring the new weight it beheld. 

“Now go get your room ready and prepare for your coming journey to San Francisco.”

As Lester ventured down the street, now clear of all waking intruders, Lorne kicked at the dirt below his feet once more. He drove his heel down, down, down until it was being dug with such force as to break the barrier of the earth. Still rather soft from its previous unrest, Lorne came to pry through it rather easily. He took a knee and clawed further, moving now loose dirt and dust away from the object of his desire. Only a few handfuls of earth below him resided the buried Gerhardt, and he hastened his digging in search of him, a treasure now to the Pastor. His hands pushed and buried within sand until another solid and signaling hand came to cry for his attention, clawing up to the heavens as if crawling his way in desperate escape of demons below, the gun long fallen from his crippled clutches. The hand was as white as the moon rising above, Lorne safe now only due to the lack of blood rushing through it. 

He drew a slender blade from his boot and, taking the hand now locked in death’s tight and unforgiving grip, sliced at the palm. Forward crept slowly the dying blood of which once flowed free and red, but now dribbled down like black molasses at the tip of a spoon. Lorne cradled it into his own palm, as sweet to him as the sugary sap it came to mimic, until a thick pool resided in his clutch. He rose, kicked the dirt liberally back into its final resting place, and returned the knife, drooped eyes never leaving the scarcely rippling red that dripped through his fingers.

“Nothing, but cursed beasts.”

He rubbed the aged blood deep into his skin and waltzed in long disappeared path of Lester to order his own room for the night, palms red as any other guilty sinner’s in the dazzling and rather revelation threaded truth of the moonlight.


	4. S01204

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in San Francisco, eager to start anew in the frisky fresh city, Wrench and Numbers discover that they cannot outrun the trouble that they cause, but rather, it follows closely with a new employer in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter out in a day, and more fluff in events at that. Action is soon to come and I apologize for so many buffer chapters, but please enjoy some cute escapades. Thank you so much for reading and don't be afraid to leave a comment~
> 
> Note: The asterisks indicate the use of sign language. Wrench's dialogue will exclusively be within asterisks like so- *...*. Numbers tends to shift between speaking and signing so when he uses sign language the asterisks will be in quotes- "*...*"- while the rest of his dialogue resides outside the asterisk, but still inside the quotes. Enjoy!

Now new partners in crime and business, Wrench and Numbers decided it was best to take their time in journeying to the long established boomtown of San Fran. No matter how fit Outlaw was assured to be, it was best not to ride their only horse to the dry of his bone especially with two full grown passengers and supplies lugged on his back. He was no mule, and Wrench made sure to split their travel between hoofing progress and relaxing hiatus for the better of the entire party. It was surely a slackened pace, but it was not as if the two were in a complete rush to drift down into another district in inevitable cause of distraction and damage. Due to this, they came to enjoy their travels all the more. 

While they ventured further from the Nebraskan boarder, they came more accustomed to the rigid severity that was the wild, barren expanse of the territory known as Utah. Baked and bare canyons plunged ruthlessly into the bowels of the earth while rippling, rusted cliffs took to reaching towards the heavens. The landscape dove deep and flew high, seemingly in search of resources for which it came to lack in the blistering fever that boiled its province. Bleached bones of deserted bodies and sparse outcroppings of bristling grasses were the only colors to fleck the wilderness, bursting forth from the deepened reds of the rock ridges and sand surrounding them as if they were a scattered party of rebels crying in futile effort to prove they were thriving upon suffocation. All prosperity came to forlorn fading in exploration of the flaring flames of the rustic red ridges. Only certain livelihood came from the austere aridness of Utah, that of the Paiutes, Shoshone, and Bannock who came to unite in war across the territory as they trekked through. Careful to avoid such conflict, Wrench kept close to usually abandoned tactical tracts, making sure Numbers knew to peer through the golden horizon from placid yellowing dawn to rushing red setting of the sun. 

Once at high noon, and secondly upon the desert dazzling ablaze upon dusk’s arrival, Wrench and Numbers would take to resting near running rivers, however, never too close for comfort. In their moments of residing, the roles of mentor and student would trade between the two, in teachings of sign and education of natural forces newly uncovered. The duel status allowed for exploration of communication as well as even eyes adjusted upon the other. Wrench remained rather wary towards the witch, just as Numbers continued his own caution in opinion of the gunslinger. In their current partnership, they benefited well together, however, it never seemed proper in putting the suspicion to sleep. How was Wrench to know if he was not being manipulated as a meat shield for the witted witch? Likewise, how was Numbers to believe the cowboy’s pleasant pledge in not turning him over to the polished authorities of San Fran? With such population it would be easier to bind him thoroughly, just as Wrench came to think a hypnotized gun for hire would come as massive profit for a conjuror in need of cover. Perhaps it would be better to pull the gun now. Perhaps taking the air from his lungs would be simpler. However, as the two apprehensive allies settled to stillness under the dusky drapery of dissolved daylight, neither came to usher urgent assault. Rather they watched the stars shine and flames flicker until one offered night watch while the other slipped sleepily into the freshly pitched tent. Traveling in treacherous territory was enough to worry about. When paired with bounty hunters and paranoid parishioners, the partnership between the two opposed grew all the more protective in unity, and no quarrel developed in their companionship besides that of petty disagreement, all the more common with all the more lessons in language. 

Their trek stretched on for tireless days, growing all the more torrid with every step atop the sizzling sand. Numbers’ ragged clothes from their last pit stop, before the bustling settlement, were not sewed sufficiently for such sweltering weather, and Wrench often found himself offering his own wide brimmed hat to the wilting witch. Soon enough, much gratefully after hours pulled thin and trim by the overworked adventurers, the buildings of the boomtown came to bloom across the skyline, civil constructions rivaling the cliff sides fading behind them in promise of propensity. The cowboy and the witch hustled into the heavily crowded settlement with little on their minds aside from the sheer size of the town and getting a warm meal inside their starving stomachs. As they waltzed in welcome of the wealthy shelter built upon the glittering backs of hard earned gold, barrels of water aligning every balcony and well fashioned folk creating casual rather than careful steps, the sun began to call for twilight. Though, stepping through to such success with no worries draped across their backs, Numbers craved a rich treat of their own.

“We should really get ourselves cleaned up, I think.”

*How’s that?*

“Um, *shaved, you know, new clothes, maybe a bath or a bed.*”

Wrench nodded his way only to deny him such luxury much to Numbers’ dissatisfaction. *We don’t have the money.*

“*We have some money-*“ 

Wrench’s head swung to no quick to cancel his partner’s hasty request. *We can’t afford it. Food, supplies, that’s final.* Numbers stepped in his path, cutting the cowboy and his stead off in their advancing steps, restless for the riches of a home cooked meal, not trivial grooming. Yet, the witch was fixed firm in his request.

“We need work. We came here for work to cover our hides. We aren’t going to get any work with you looking like a feral man.”  
Wrench reached a hand up to scrub at his chin, sturdy stubble prickling at the tips of his fingers as he came to do so. Moving up he stroked the hollows of his eyes, sunken and estranged to the concept of sleep, only to tug at the hair underneath his hat, outgrown curls now flattened with grease and sweat of which Wrench regretted touching. Pulling his hat closer, lip sticking out as if swollen in their battle, he crossed his arms in a grouchy grudge. Numbers took the opportunity to preach his precise point.

“You may get some lowlifes that will take your hand, but no big dealers. If we want to survive here, we need the higher-ups.”

Wrench’s gaze raised to the sky in reluctant reflection, eventually settling back down to earth with brows lowered as guards to his conceding. Numbers flashed him a thank you as well as a sly smirk before stepping with a new swagger in search of a fine barber of his liking. Wrench followed with purposeful weight in each footfall as his only remaining rebellion. Soon enough, they were seated in chairs like thrones to those bred of comfort, and reclining in recess of caring. It had been many a job since the last time Wrench found himself in a barber’s lap. Besides his own clean cut shaving of stubble over his chin, not much care had been given to his appearance, rather, he let his hair twirl to tangled in overgrown curls underneath his flat brim with no care as to the impression he presented to his employers. While Numbers tended to his own looks as well, he knew the care of a barber was the best to receive when looking to impress, and as Wrench fidgeted in his seat he relaxed almost completely until the towel around his neck was thrown aside. To Numbers, nothing beat the feeling of a fresh trim, and he strode out into the now soothing streets of the city with more pep than Wrench had known him to possess. 

The witch made his way to Outlaw, reaching deep within the saddle bag before Wrench could snatch his thieving hand away when stuck reflecting upon his own cleanliness. He had snagged a handful enough of currency as Wrench snapped his way, yet Numbers did nothing but hold up a hand and scamper away with the cowboy reaching after him. Huffing gruffly, fist balled like knots by his side, he sucked at his lip and searched for what money remained within his own possession. To his dismay, only a few penny pinching bucks were left behind, and he sagged back against the post with Outlaw, delight in comfort now dispelled completely. He fumed, puffing with boiling steam like a geyser ready to blow upon the witch’s eventual return. And return he did with a mighty flourish.

When Wrench saw him approaching he was almost unrecognizable in his new presented poise. The witch found himself needed commodities, a hat of his own as well as a combination of attire that crafted him to be the business man he had desire to appeal to. However, the bursts of rich color against the black ensemble, a flowing coat of fashionable thickness, all forged from the finest of fabrics, were not of necessity, and as Numbers confidently displayed his new duds, Wrench had to keep from reeling in many senses. His spirit in certainty was enough to send Wrench’s fists fighting in effort to knock the witch back, however, the revealing of what refinement and grace Numbers came to possess when not being run ragged and hung by the throat kept Wrench’s fists nothing but clenched as he marginally admired him. Yet, when Numbers stopped just in front of him, Wrench let his finger fly up to flick the newly purchased hat from Numbers’ newly groomed head. Before his insult could rile up the witch’s resolve, Wrench gestured to his fresh and fitting outfit.

*I said nothing about letting you blow our budget on those!*

Numbers’ eyes fluttered lightly as he adjusted his flat hat back into place and moved to putting more packaged clothes into Outlaw’s bundles. “Easy, I know what you’re saying, but trust me, alright? I promised work after we cleaned up so that’s what I’m doing.”

*You blew most of our supply money.*

“I invested, *come on, let’s get a hot meal and we’ll start looking.*” 

Unsure of whether the witch was interpreting his signs correctly or just seeming to in his own snide effort to ignore him, Wrench came to bustle after him like a clambering child as he pushed forward into the dwindling street. Though, as he pushed, pulled, and prodded at his peeved partner as he searched for a newspaper listing of work, Wrench spotted local lips whispering the unescapable paranoia that had become so familiar within their companionship. He froze, looking closer to each mouth that chatted about intimately in their clusters as they passed by, continuing on despite the prying cowboy in their presence. Talk of witches, gossip of magic, rumors of malicious evil outside the town, and the scandal surrounding the slander of such corruption now becoming present in their very own San Francisco. The treacherous girl was strange, they had known it all along, and Wrench came hustling with scurrying boots and spurs to Numbers who was now preoccupied with a paper. He signed to him desperately, encouraging the slightest of glances just to warn him that the townspeople know, for god’s sake they know! Numbers only turned the newspaper around and snapped it in front of his wild eyes. The headline streaked bold in announcement, stating **_GIRL ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT TO BE TRIED THIS SUNDAY._** Numbers peered over the paper with immense exhaustion as well as pompous awareness. Wrench shrugged to him, a demand for answers.

“*What? We stay low then. One girl doesn’t mean we can’t get a job.* We’re just hands for hire.”

Wrench shook his head to the statement, Numbers snatching the paper away from him with black eyes swirling to storms of irritation. 

“*What do you mean no?*”

*We should look into this.*

“Oh, for christ’s sake-“

*We should!*

“*Why!?*”

*Because it’s not right.*

“Fuck what’s right, you’re a goddamn gunslinger!”

*I want to at least check this out. Especially if those damned priests are involved.*

“*No. Let’s get food.*” Numbers began to storm away without a second thought, hands shoved deep within his pockets to lock against Wrench’s childish prodding, however, it did not come to follow. In fact, the jingling of spurs did not come clattering after him, and he turned to see Wrench still standing down the street, arms now crossed across his chest establishing himself as a mountain formation, intimidating and immovable. “Really?” Numbers huffed along the way, but trotted back to his partner with dark eyes heavy regardless.

*We look into it.*

“ _Fine!_ Can we at least rest afterwards?”

*Yes.*

“Alright then, fine, fine, *let’s go.*”

Wrench followed now in his footsteps, no longer weighed down by his own stubbornness, and the two found the nearest inn to them, a proper hotel with a tavern at its base. They stationed like lingering guards at the gates of a castle brimming with secrets, Numbers picking apart the crowded den in search of the most gossiping of willing geese, which happened to be a throng of uptown biddies pressed to the corner, skirts bustling like ruffled feathers. Numbers gave a nod to Wrench, of which he returned, before setting off to converse. He took his hat from his head as he entered their socialite bubble, the gesture of a true gentleman, placing it over his heart with a pleasant smile rising as a warm sun does in the dewy morning. 

“Pardon, ladies,” he announced, and the cluster of dames turned his way, meeting his presented sweetness with their own, smiles peeking at his soothing voice. “I was wondering if you could shine some light for me here. See, I’m new in town.”

“Well, of course!” One came to turn his way fully, her blush as vibrant as the red in her dress. She welcomed him with an overenthusiastic grin and batting eyelashes, while the other two shared an all-knowing look. “What do you want to know, Sugar?”

Numbers kept his smile up like a shield though he felt his insides revolt to the candied compliment of a pet name. “I’m just curious about this… witchcraft was it?”

“Oh heavens!” Another of the woman almost fainted at the mention, face practically as blue as the lace lining her gloved hands as she fanned them by her cheeks. “What’s to know? It’s trouble!”

“Is it true?” Numbers leaned in to them, as if a part of their gossiping secret society. 

Red rolled her eyes, batting away the concept with a hand pledged brazenly his way. “Who cares? The girl gives me the willies.” Blue nodded with her, though the last of their trio, a younger lady of yellow shook her head in disagreement.

“That poor thing. She doesn’t deserve this she’s just a girl! I don’t think she could be capable of evil if she tried.”

Numbers took to her side, as she seemed the most honest in observation of the three. “So, no one has seen her… do anything. She’s just a bit strange?”

“I think so.”

Red hurled into his vision yet again. “Her and her father are new to San Francisco. And while the locals here are a bit skeptical, I think they have a right to be.”

“Especially with the trouble in the other territories!” Blue piped up in blasphemy. 

Yellow bumped at Numbers’ side with a stern look when he met her. “She has a trial, whether she’s done anything or not. A well-known preacher is supposed to be arriving Sunday, tomorrow, in order to judge her.” She had suspicion twinkling in the depths of her eyes, but Numbers had his own fire awakening.

 _A preacher_. “So, this preacher they’re sending, he’s dealt with witch-hunts before?”

“Obviously,” Blue declared, demanding center stage. “So many witches sprouting up and around, I’m happy to receive the head of these hunts in our city. We live in a boomtown, and I’m not having that boom ruined by some witchy little girl!”

But Numbers had been missing her screeching, now only caught up on the idea of this preacher waltzing into town, the pinnacle of the race against paranoia, the “holy” boss of which he had no doubt come to meet before and would much like to meet again. As Blue, Red, and Yellow babbled on, he glanced back to Wrench who had been observing the interaction intensely from the doorway, and nodded. Wrench tilted his head in beckoning him back to which he gladly followed with little resistance other than the tootles of the biddies he departed from. He relayed the simple facts to Wrench, that it was a young girl, that the townspeople are mighty suspicious of her, and that one of their heavenly holy men were coming down on the morrow to decide her fate. The cowboy nodded along, news of his own plaguing him impatient.

*Someone was watching you.*

“Yeah? *Anyone we’ve come to know?*”

*Not that I know of.*

“*Well, let’s get food and discuss it over dinner.*”

Making their way to an abandoned table, eventually they were served water without their demand of such from a waitress with wary eyes. While Numbers chattered to Wrench, having spent too much time with the gossiping geese in the corner, Wrench broke and gazed after the waitress, pointing slyly as her back turned.

*That’s her.*

“*Who?*”

*The person who was watching you.*

“Hmm, well can’t be helped. *We’re new.*”

Though while Numbers tried to continue in his explanation, now more passionate at the prospect of witches in town due to the involvement of the preacher, the waitress returned with a plastered smile, inquiring if they would like to indulge in some coffee or whiskey. Numbers simply suggested a meal and nothing more, returning to signing what he could to Wrench, who continued to watch after the waitress in his question until she was out of sight. Numbers buzzed while Wrench advised tentatively, now more in danger with the religious persecutors knocking at their doorstep. 

“*This town is larger than life. We’ll be able to hide.* I’m just saying he’s falling into our hands now!”

*He’s falling into your hands.* Numbers shook off his signs. *Work. We’re here to find work.*

“*I know, I know, but he’ll be here-*”

Before the witch could grow too agitated and antsy in his desire to reunite with the man of God again, the waitress broke their bubble, placing plates clattering upon the table, rattling the two from their seats much to the waitress’ appeal as they gazed at the lavishly food adorned plates in front of them. Sharing a look with Wrench before turning her way, he held up a hand to catch her attention before she swiveled back away in escape.

“Excuse me, we didn’t order this…”

“Oh, it’s um, it’s on the house!” She gave the two a grin in passing, as light and bright as sun streaked air, and pressed on in her departure. Numbers could not help but ogle the food at their table, mouth watering at its mere presence before them as he looked to Wrench in too much excitement for his own good. With a ringing empty stomach he cherished the gift, while Wrench shook his head to the meal. Numbers couldn’t argue as Wrench moved his hands to speaking first.

*She’s still staring.* He pointed more bluntly her way this time, the waitress spying it across the room with spiked nerves at her called attention like a hot light pressed to her face. Numbers turned in question, much annoyed at her behavior this far into their dining experience. It was quite obvious by now she desired them in some manner and Numbers suggested as much, meeting her gaze now and signaling she return. Looking to and fro, very vigilant to any prying spy of their interaction, she made her way back eyes in question as to what was the matter. Numbers propped his elbows on the table, tilting into them as she lowered to his signal.

“Do you _need_ something?” Wrench jabbed his side with a pointed elbow.

*What does she want?*

“...What do you want?”

Her eyes flicked about them, as if inspecting their presence all over again as Wrench had caught her doing upon their entrance. She flowed further in her bow towards her cautious company, blue eyes bubbling like foam on the sea. “You’re gunhands, right?”

The two strangers to town shared in another fully spoken and secret look, before Numbers pulled back from the safe space the waitress and him had created with a cocky catch in his words.

“Depends on who is asking.”

“I’m willing to pay. I have a hefty enough sum for the both of you if you’re willing, as well as a room or two here. Already paid for.” 

She was practically winking Numbers’ way in offering of free luxuries, and now the more childish of them both, a kid in a ripened candy shop, he looked to Wrench for answers. The cowboy had planned on keeping to shelter in the outskirts of town, for safety as well as budgeting, important now more than ever after Numbers’ selfish splurging in their initial clean up. Though, as rocky as he was in manner, he did not honestly crave more rocks driven into his shoulder blades when nestling into the arid dirt of the outside expanse, as he had been doing for months it seemed. He thought of feathered pillows, silken blankets draped over plush mattresses, and the security of a roof over his head. Like Numbers, he had fallen fast for the promise of pleasurable comfort, declaring so with a brisk nod. It was a job after all. Numbers turned to their waitress, barely beating a beaming grin back as he agreed to her terms.

“Thank you! I’ll meet you in your room when you’ve finished eating. Let me grab your key.” She strolled away, now bristling with positive passion in their practically secured position by her side. All the while, Numbers and Wrench dug into a much desired and delicious dinner, forgetting all their troubles at the sudden notion of work and shelter in their future, offered to them with an open and encouraging hand it was hard to believe themselves incapable of escaping if they came to change their minds. 

Minutes after morsels had settled in stomachs, the witch and the cowboy approached their destined room happy as dogs generously fed by their master. They came to positively glow in inspection of their chamber, as simple as they could come to expect, but quite luxurious in comparison to their previous lodgings. A vanity for clothes with a sparkling mirror pledge atop its shoulders and a basin just below, freshly prepped for their present arrival. The wallpaper was pink, humming with such affection in languidly soft color that the two hands for hire could not help but relax in its presence. Residing in the center, the prized magnum opus of the prim and proper inn, was a bed whose seams were nearly fit to burst with its padded packing. Numbers tested the complexity of its comfort immediately, flopping into the bed and freezing as if he had been lowered into his own coffin. But what a coffin it was, perfect in its plush support, and no mind was paid to its personality as a prison. He gripped at the sheets, desiring nothing more than to snatch the velvety smoothness of them into his own skin, until Wrench kicked at his boots hanging loosely over the edge. He shifted upwards, managing an eye roll and a straightening of his coat before the waitress, their new employer, stepped inside the room and bolted the door behind her. They watched her expectantly and she was prepared for their anticipating eyes. 

“Do you like the room?”

*What’s the job?*

“It’s lovely. What work do you have us down for, might I ask.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, I heard you asking about that girl earlier, with those women. The one being accused of witchcraft and all. It’s nonsense!”

“So this involves her?”

“Yes, her and her dad. They’re real nice folks, I’m telling you, and they don’t deserve these allegations. They’ve done nothing wrong. And I saw you two fellas walk in asking questions, especially this one with his revolver, I figured I could ask you for help. No one else will listen to me.”

Numbers turned Wrench’s way in call for his focus, managing to spell his concerns without the ear of the waitress to bother him. “*Should we get into even more trouble just for a job? We can always find another.*”

*I know, but I guarantee this girl doesn’t deserve to die. It’s seems mighty political to me.*

“*It does. Those damned holy men are involved and that means trouble no matter what. They’re going to kill her whether I smell magic in her being or not. They don’t really judge these things they just kill for killings sake.*”

*Then we stop them. It’s work.*

“*Which is why I’m not backing out of this. Not to mention I get to dig under those bastard’s skin…*”

*Take it.* The cowboy was nodding the waitresses way before Numbers could announce their acceptance, though he did nonetheless.

“Oh, jeez, thank you guys. I know it’s money in your pockets, but thank you. See, me and the Sheriff here already have a plan. You’ll be fitting in just fine. I’ll come get you in the morning, early on so I can explain everything. We’re going to be setting that girl free.”

“We know. Happy to help.” Impatient to get to resting in their polished and humble abode, Numbers was quick to cut his compliments, and the waitress knew as much. Enthused alone by their acceptance in being her ally, yet rushed in returning to work, she started to scurry away, swift swirls of her skirt swaying by the doorway in her excited exit. But before the boys could get too comfortable in their retreat, her brown wavy lock drawn head came back to bobbing in.

“What are your names now?”

“I’m Mr. Numbers and this is Mr. Wrench.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Molly Solverson, your new employer.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ranch ruled like an emperor among the desolate bones of depraved, dissolute desert, the only prosperity found in miles. Bovine beasts mulled about the expanding exterior, hefty, plump, and high above any competing cattle in the territory, hell, in the country, and did their time as trophies till they were slaughtered for their real cherished prizes. Within the gates of the ranch, broad picket fences like battalion barricades of the rustic variety, dwelled the kings, queens, princesses, and princes of an empire, not only of the cattle trade, but of the criminal. The family was of bonded blood and made their business off of the like, red keeping their walls towering and prosperity flowing as they kept to themselves in alliance. They took part in breaking bread in the waking of the afternoon sun, the most secure to their business trade, and held a meeting between two remaining siblings. The oldest, a lion of a man with a tendency to curl his lips, roared across the dining table with rage of discovery and revenge.

“Rye may have been the weakest of us all, but he was a Gerhardt in the end!”

“We know,” the second oldest responded with a growl.

“Then why are we doin’ nothing about it!?”

“Because we have bounties to deal with.”

“Screw the damn bounties! They spilled family blood, not only that they did it in broad god damn day light! This is our priority now. Getting the scalps of whoever it was that killed our brother.”

“It’s a business.”

“There’s no business when there’s no family left to do it. We go after them together, you hear me? Whether Mom likes it or not.”

“We’ll do it. But we have to wait for news before we go in with our necks bare.”

The oldest brother did nothing but grumble, knowing very well of the trouble it would cause, but hell if it wasn’t trouble he was looking for in the end. 

“Kansas City was already spotted around those parts.”

“I know! We should go now! Stop them before they can get to guzzling the blood _we_ deserve.”

“When we know where they are next, we’ll go.”

“Tooth and god damn nail, I swear-“ He prowled away from the meeting, head and shoulders as high as he could prop them, chest puffed as if he had a power to prove, though he had the power in his very possession at all times, in his very blood. The second sibling watched him leave with nothing but a mouthful of teeth tugging at the baked bread in the center of the table. The cocky son of a bitch was going to get killed if he kept showing off his pelt like that, but he could not disagree. The blood had been spilt, the blood of dear brother Rye, and nothing could replace it but the spilling of the murder’s own that had condemned him to the ground. Magic it was after all. He never like dealing with magic, but there was no other choice in the matter. His fate had brought him and he must handle the cards how they were dealt to him. With one final nibble at the bread in his hand, he turned from the table as well, and moved upstairs to his mother’s office in checking of better news.


End file.
